BLOODLINES AND BULLETS: THE FALL OF HOUSE VANDERBILT

The silence inside the wind-whipped penthouse was suffocating. Rain poured horizontally through the shattered glass wall, soaking the plush rugs and pooling around the fallen guards. Marcus Kane stood on the mezzanine landing, his heavy machine gun lowered slightly, his scarred face illuminated by the flickering emergency lights.

Slowly, Kane reached into his pocket and pulled out a rugged tactical smartphone. He glanced down at the screen. His eyes widened. The notification was unmistakable: ACCOUNT ASSETS FROZEN BY ORDER OF FEDERAL FINANCIAL REGULATORY AUTHORITY.

""That son of a bitch..."" Kane muttered, his grip on the weapon loosening. ""Victor promised us immunity.""

""Victor protects the family name, Kane,"" Frank said, stepping out from behind the concrete pillar, his weapon held at low ready. ""You were just the cleanup crew. When the mess gets too big, they throw the broom into the incinerator.""

Kane looked down at Frank, then tossed his heavy machine gun over the railing. It hit the marble floor with a heavy clatter. ""Daniel is in the panic room behind the dressing room mirror. Code is eight-four-two-one. Don't leave him breathing, Frank.""

Kane turned, walked down the service corridor toward the emergency stairs, and vanished into the night, abandoning the Vanderbilt family to their fate.

Frank didn't waste a second. He walked past the wreckage of the living room and kicked open the mahogany doors to the master suite. The dressing room was silent, lined with floor-to-ceiling closets filled with bespoke suits and luxury watches. In the center hung an ornate, two-way mirror.

Frank punched the code into the hidden keypad beneath the vanity: 8-4-2-1.

A heavy hydraulic latch disengaged with a deep thud. The mirror swung open, revealing a reinforced steel room lined with monitors showing security feeds of the entire building.

Daniel was huddled in the corner behind an executive desk, a silver-plated revolver clutched in his trembling hands. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and he smelled of stale alcohol and pure panic.

""Stay back!"" Daniel shrieked, pointing the shaking gun at Frank. ""I'll shoot! I swear to God I'll blow your head off!""

Frank didn't flinch. He walked slowly into the room, his eyes dead and cold. ""You couldn't even shoot your wife yourself, Daniel. You had to poison her drink like a coward.""

""She was going to ruin me!"" Daniel sobbed, his voice cracking hysterically. ""Everything was mine! The company, the money, the estates! She was just a common mechanic’s daughter! She had no right to look at my books!""

Frank moved faster than the human eye could track. Before Daniel’s finger could tighten on the trigger, Frank crossed the room, grabbed Daniel’s wrist, and twisted it inward. The revolver discharged into the reinforced ceiling with a deafening crack before Frank ripped it from his hand, tossing it aside.

He dragged Daniel out of the panic room by his silk lapels, throwing him bodily into the ruined living room. Daniel rolled across the wet floor, coming to a stop just feet away from the gaping hole in the exterior glass wall, staring down eighty-two stories into the dizzying abyss of Manhattan.

Daniel screamed, clutching the wet carpet with his fingernails. ""Don't kill me! Please, Frank! I'll give you everything! Fifty million! A hundred million!""

Frank stood over him, his Glock leveled directly between Daniel’s eyes. ""Your father didn't send me to kill you, Daniel.""